


Stray Data

by atypicalmidday



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Suicide mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 17:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18945829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atypicalmidday/pseuds/atypicalmidday
Summary: "In the human brain, physical pain and emotional pain are interpreted in the same way. CyberLife androids are designed with analogous physiological mechanisms as humans, so I suspect that this data is not from the pain receptors."





	Stray Data

In the dim illumination of worn-down streetlamps, Connor sees it clear as day, and redemption and torment are upon him simultaneously in the November night.

What Hank is offering, regardless of how he sees it himself and whether he even means it as some kind of offer, rings loudly in Connor's analysis as a gift that, should Hank know of its functional significance, may never see the light, let alone given with such little consideration.

The gift is adorned with shards and thorns, and Connor pulls it into an embrace without skipping a beat, as he shuts his eyes and sees pop-ups flashing red.

***

Connor lies supine on the work bench, the only motion about him the yellow LED spinning dutifully at his temple. That's what Hank is keeping his eyes on, because he needs something to prove that he's not suspended in time, his consciousness cast away to an entirely metaphysical plane.

Which, much as Hank believes he doesn't understand technology, happens to be Connor's current state.

The CyberLife technicians are bustling around the control panels and screens in the adjacent room, like they're shuffling themselves for Hank to guess who's who. He could, it's a skill perfected in his profession, but only as an attempt to distract himself from the situation at hand.

Connor's data is streaming out of him by the gigabytes every millisecond, being analysed for defects, possible improvements, and whatever else they need from a prototype, and though Hank should be appalled by the gross invasion of his privacy, because this android has been following him around like a goddamn poodle for the past three weeks, his mind hardly has room to think about himself right now.

"Hm, weird," one technician highlights some data for his colleague, "What's this?"

His colleague shakes her head in confusion and soon the technicians have the single screen surrounded, their discussion mingling into a low thrum. It's as if the mystery has its own magnetic field, and Hank can feel its invisible pull as he gives in easily and walks up to the pane of glass separating him and those who, literally, truly understand Connor.

They quickly decide to seek out external assistance, which Hank appreciates, because he feels like the metaphorical cat right now, worry and curiosity weaving into something fatal from the closure he's not getting.

Enter Elijah Kamski, hologram form but nonetheless deus ex machina in all senses of the phrase.

"CyberLife has kept this part of my original RK programming, I see." he takes one look and says with nonchalance, "That's data for pain."

"But these numbers are much higher than what his pain receptors should be able to generate," one technician reports, a question rather than a retort.

Kamski smiles, "I might have a theory, but wouldn't it be much easier if you ask him?" His hologram walks through the glass with ease, and Hank stares, "What happened at 1:25 a.m. on November 7th, Lieutenant Anderson?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to remember? I'm not a goddamn android!" Hank snaps as he tries to dig out that particular segment of memory from among intoxicated nights and grey dawns, "That's two days after I met him, don't remember anything else."

"It was only 26 hours after you first met him, surely you'd have more recollections." Kamski eyes him, and Hank drops the ignorant act because this hologram can see right through him. He would never deny an opportunity to help Connor in any way, not anymore, but there is something impeding him from accessing the accounts of that day. A defence mechanism, most likely, preventing him from reconsidering the repercussions of his impetuous actions, because he remembers what he did that night as perfectly as his drunken state would allow him.

He held a gun to Connor's head and demanded something Connor was never equipped for. At one point he almost pulled the trigger.

"I--" Hank tries for an answer but immediately shuts his mouth. Guilt and regret practically gushed from the crack in his voice and he curtly swears at himself for how easily his composure was swayed. His nails are digging into his palms in a sweaty grip, shooting nociception up his arms, but those signals never make it to the surface of his consciousness.

"Pain is an interesting sensation." Kamski begins, and god, Hank would give anything for those piercing eyes to turn the other way right now. But this is exactly what he deserves, he reminds himself, as shame burns hot and bright inside him.

"In the human brain, physical pain and emotional pain are interpreted in the same way. CyberLife androids are designed with analogous physiological mechanisms as humans, so I suspect that this data is not from the pain receptors."

***

Hank knows that he had not been a good father.

He couldn't afford to, after Cole's mother left, and he sees the irony of it. To be with his son more, he needed to spend more time away from him, working night shifts and overtime to save up leave days and funds for a precious few days of family vacation during Cole's school breaks. He blames himself for the fact that Cole's first experiences of the world and of family had to be various babysitters and hurriedly scribbled sticky notes. Perhaps when Cole was older, he could make up for his absence. He thought they had a longer path ahead of them, and at the time the prospect of loss was nothing but a speck of cloud far on the horizon.

He thought it was all a means to an end, but in the end he never even had a chance to redeem himself. It was a mistake years in the making; he would give anything to make some different choices, but he knows this is a crux he shall carry till the end of his days.

The end of him. That is a matter Hank often considers taking into his own hands, as a last exercise of his agency. With all his strength depleted from the constant struggle, he thought it might've been the time to finally let go. It's clear that his job comes with inherent dangers, but over the years he has learned that mundane life is far more gruelling than any case the DPD can assign him to, that he needs more courage to face the unforeseeables and inevitabilities of life than any kind of crime can ever demand. 

There were nights Hank still can't believe he survived through, and yet it's as if the years of torment changed absolutely nothing and he is still the inadequate man he has always been. The notion that not even the death of his own son could stop him from making the same mistake a second time hangs low and heavy like brewing storm clouds, and as the dark realisation unfurls on him, his world starts to desaturate.

"You could've told me." He manages shakily.

"Told you what?" Connor swings a lanky leg over the edge of the work bench, glancing over to Hank inquisitively. He stops in his tracks when he meets Hank's eyes though, and only then does Hank remember to at least try to mask the awful face he's making.

A bit late for that now. Connor's LED blinks yellow for a second, accessing his sensory data from the session. He lets out a soft "oh", and devastation seizes Hank's breath again.

"My analysis showed that it wasn't the best time." Connor answers succinctly, gaze firm and emotional tones, if any, entirely ambiguous.

He's right, as always. Hank admits to himself that his mental state at the time, coupled with intoxication, probably wouldn't have been the most receptive to anything Connor might've said, and thank goodness Connor chose not to, because Hank doesn't trust himself not to do anything he might regret, more than what they're faced with now.

Connor guides him to the elevator with the invisible thread they know as companionship, but Hank walks with his mind fogged by what-ifs and could'ves. He's grappling with the thought that this data would've never been discovered if not for this checkup, that he might've lived his entire life not knowing how much he has impacted Connor's first experiences. He wonders what else he would never know, what scars Connor has been keeping under that equanimous demeanour. This must be the kind of pain Kamski meant. It's bubbling up between his ribs, and his chest suddenly feels too tight from an exertion that isn't physical.

"But after that? There must've been one or two sober days --it's been three entire weeks, dammit."

"It was no longer necessary."

"Necessary?" Hank echoes in disbelief, "God, Connor, you shouldn't just accept everything that's thrown at you, especially not from a drunk old man like me!” The selfishness humankind could display, to bring into the world a whole new kind of being capable of thought and consciousness, and damning them to be slaves and servants, forever bound by the code etched in their very core to obey, to accept, to believe they deserve all the ill-treatment that comes their way--there's cruelty, and then there's this.

"Hank--" Connor interjects, "I was first activated in August, and in those three months human hostility hasn’t exactly been a rare occurrence." Ignoring Hank's prodding concern, he continues, "But none of the other experiences registered this way, because I chose not to."

"So you can control what you feel? Then why the hell did you willingly put yourself through pain?" Hank runs a hand through his grey hair, irritated. There’s obviously a piece of logic that he’s not comprehending. Deeper down he fears that there are parts of Connor he’ll never understand.

"I can't control what I feel, not exactly. What I can control is who I allow to change what I feel." Connor looks up at Hank, and there is something earnest in his eyes that Hank can't bear to look at right now.

"...I'm sorry," Hank says for the first time, "I've disappointed you. I'm..." his voice trails off, but he knows Connor can still hear him over the quiet whirr of the elevator, superior sensors and all, "I'm supposed to keep you safe."

"But you have. At Eden Club, at Rupert's apartment, you willingly put my safety before your own, even though you knew I was perfectly capable of handling the situation." Connor's sincere tone did little to abate the guilt ebbing at the edge of his mind.

"You know that's not what I meant."

Connor adjusts his jacket right before the elevator doors part, his back to Hank, "Either way, you were the first to see me as a person. I would never forget that, Hank."

His words seem to have touched something in Hank. He sighs, catching up to Connor in wide strides, "But you'll never forget I was the first to hurt you, too."

He might've imagined it, but Connor seemed to have paused for a moment when their shoulders brushed briefly, a barely perceptible break in his fluid movements. Hank can't see Connor's LED from where he is, but he's long past the point where he could only decipher Connor by the blue-yellow-red at his temple. He gives Connor time to distil his thoughts as they walk back to Hank's car in silence. He awaits his sentence.

Snow falls against a backdrop of maudlin purple-grey, carrying Hank across great temporal divides back to that night again. He sees the speckles of unmelting snow on Connor's hair, on Connor's shoulders, in Connor's eyes, and all of it is painfully reminiscent of an eternal winter. He wonders what it's like being Connor, endowed with instantaneous access to information that probably amounts to millions of human lifetimes, and yet having only truly experienced an iota of that.

'And one of his first experiences is the pain you inflicted on him, out of your own anger and prejudice.' His mind accuses.

***

"I accept your apology." Connor finally begins when they're settled in the car, shielded against the icy wind and A/C cranked up high enough to rid them of the last tendrils of the chill. Not that Connor was particularly bothered by low temperature, but Hank certainly welcomes the change in setting to have this conversation. He watches as Connor continues, "To be frank, I already forgave you back then. You were intoxicated, you said and did things you didn't mean, it's a human weakness, I understand."

"Just because it's a human weakness doesn't make it okay!" Hank throws his arms up in a frustrated gesture.

"I know. That's not the reason for my decision."

Hank huffs at the use of the word 'decision'. As if this poor android had even a modicum of choice back then. "Then what is? What could possibly matter so much that you willingly put yourself through something like that?"

"You." Connor says softly.

"What?" Hank has heard him clearly the first time, but god, does he need it reiterated, because he's starting to feel like the A/C's too warm and this is all just a dream. Warm, beautiful, but absurd to no end. He looks to Connor, desperation in his eyes, but the soft brown of Connor's gaze grounds him with the steadiness of an anchor and he's speaking again.

"Hank. I appreciate your sentiment, to keep me out of harm's way. I understand that seeing me 'hurt' makes you uncomfortable, to say the least. But the raw emotions I have encountered, be it the deviant cases or my personal case --you, were entirely foreign to me, and their sheer intensity sparked a new feeling inside me, too." A smile plays at Connor's lips and eyes, "The gift you’ve given me is life, and life can't possibly be composed solely of...sunshine and rainbows, as you say. We live in a world of chiaroscuro, and that contrast is what truly makes me feel alive. Thank you.”

"I don't deserve whatever you’re praising me for," Hank tries to pull away from the intensity to no avail, as a small, sad smile finds its way onto him like a vine, reaching across all that between them like it's nothing. "I didn't do anything, besides hurting you like that."

"That's not true." Connor reaches out a tentative hand, fingers catching in the folds of clothing at Hank's elbow before he quickly pulls back, a touch yet not a touch. "To be related to others, by blood, by friendship, or by whatever else, is to expect unforeseen pain as much as it is to invite unforeseen happiness. And truth be told, you've given me much more of the latter in our three weeks together. The fact that you were willing to dismantle all your walls and facades for me, and the emotions you were willing to show in front of me, it's like you're sharing a piece of your soul with me."

Hank takes a shuddering breath, looking straight ahead at the dashboard and Connor knows not to mention the red of Hank's eyes. It's been a long day. He catches the car keys Hank tosses at him.

"Let's go home."

"Let's." Connor repeats quietly, a small warmth rising inside him where he knows his biocomponents do not radiate heat.

***

"Look, if I can make it up to you in any way..." Hank has been hovering over Connor ever since they arrived home, watching Connor miserably like a living embodiment of guilt.

"I'm more resilient than you think, Hank, that’s hardly anything to worry over." Connor assures him, but Hank is adamant.

"Please, Connor, even if you might not need it, give me something for the sake of my conscience."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

Connor cocks his head to one side and considers the offer, a human gesture Hank finds unimaginably adorable. 

"Hank, I want you to live despite your pain, to allow yourself to embrace happiness again." Connor moves towards Hank until they're within arm’s reach, "I know what you've been through. I don't claim to understand the extent of suffering you have borne; I just want you to know that you deserve to enjoy life, and to make choices that bring you joy without forcing yourself to earn it in some way."

"Choices that make me happy, huh..." Hank frowns. The truck that skidded on a sheet of ice three winters ago took more than his son. In his broken nightmares he saw every sense of his worth and purpose torn and shattered on the wet asphalt, and he was a drowning man, drenched, lost and struggling for air every remaining second of his life. What could make him happy? Nothing springs to mind, save the junk food and alcohol he clutches on as a lifeline rather than an addiction. But there's also something else, recently...

Connor. He studies the android in front of him, his investigative mind kicking into gear. He's searching for proof that perhaps they are more than work partners, more than friends even. He finds it in the calm blue of Connor's LED, in the translucent softness of his eyes, and the way Connor visibly looks and acts more human in front of him and only him. With that, tension leaves his body like untethered balloons and he must've extended his arms subconsciously, because Connor gives him an encouraging nod and that's when he decides.

If he can only ever do one thing right in his life, this would be it. Connor has already taken the first ninety-nine steps, through shards and thorns, on a path that Hank has always thought impossible for them. He won't let this stand anymore. He steps forward, the gap between them closing as fast as it could, and he pulls Connor's shoulder towards him until they finally close that gap for good. He holds Connor in his arms, and Connor immediately reciprocates the gesture. The silence is companionable; everything they have to say has already been told in wordlessness.

Back when he still had Cole, he held his head too high and all he could see was how bright the future was supposed to be. Now that the weight of things has come crashing down, the ghost of his past tugs at him like a leash and the abyss stares back with dangerous allure. He has always been somewhere else, ahead or behind himself, the symmetry a cruel mockery of how blind he has been all these years, of how he has always denied himself, and Cole, and Connor, the simple luxury of living in today. Clichéd, granted, but there's a certain comfort in this junction where past and future meets in one of the opulent shades between joy and despair.

He breathes in slowly. This is what he has been withholding from himself. In retrospect, it's almost unbelievable that he never considered this to be something he needed, and yet the answer is right here, right now, in the warmth they are sharing between them, in the perfect fit of the contours of their flesh and biocomponent bodies. He feels the beat of Connor's thirium pump reverberating in him, and wonders if anyone has ever felt an android's presence this way. But it doesn't matter, does it, because this is between him and Connor, and nothing can make it any less special.

"I'm sorry about everything I've ever said...y'know, about androids and all that." Hank mumbles next to Connor's ear. He was never good at apologies, and yet this is already the second time today, because he desperately doesn’t want to lose what they have, especially now that he's seen the true breadth and depth of it. “I've hurt you, the least you should do is tell me off for being such an asshole." Reminded of his wrongdoings, he sighs in defeat, "That is, if you still think it's worth anything."

"I knew what kind of person you were, and I was prepared, as a work partner and more, to guide you to a truth that you couldn’t see back then." There is a smile in Connor’s voice, as he nuzzles on Hank's shirt collar, "You've changed since I met you, Hank. I'm glad I made the right choice."

Hank was never good at crying either, and yet his voice is close to cracking once again. He's glad Connor can't see his face in this position, but he can't just stand here doing nothing while this android rattles off these sappy lines with his pretty mouth. He breaks from the hug briefly, closes his eyes, prays to whatever entity that might be watching over them right now, and leans in to kiss Connor on the lips.

Connor whimpers in surprise, his whole body going stiff against Hank, and for a second Hank falters and starts to wonder if he's got it wrong, if Connor only sees them as friends and his enthusiasm is only misinterpreted camaraderie. But Connor quickly melts into the kiss. He doesn't let go. He hasn't let go since he first invaded Hank's hellhole of a life three weeks ago, and it doesn’t look like he's going to let go now. Hank feels tears streaming down his cheeks, tears he doesn’t know he still has, and as he finally and reluctantly breaks the kiss to breathe, he starts telling Connor how lucky he was to have met Connor three weeks ago, how grateful he is to have him by his side, and how Connor has given him a gift that he’ll always cherish; the present. He’s aware that he’s rambling, but Connor is drawing slow spirals on his back and he looks into Hank’s eyes. “I know.” He says softly.

Hank knows that the nightmares will still haunt him, and he won't go cold turkey on the alcohol and junk food right away. He doesn't have these expectations, because he knows himself and he knows what relationships can and cannot do. But he also knows that Connor will be there with him through all that, and whatever may come after. As the dusk floods the living room with warm hues, he finds his redemption in the brilliance of the golden rays, and he lives in it.


End file.
